You can say I was incognito. Undercover. On a covert mission. My heart was in two places. First off, I wanted to experience a mindfulness workshop for myself for once. I’d heard a lot about them. I could see that I was surrounded by hopeful, clearly mystified people. At least two hundred of us were crammed into a modest auditorium.

Some folks remained quiet and observant. Others whispered. The average participant was perhaps fifty years old. The mood was one of great anticipation. But I wasn’t persuaded that some ‘master teacher’ all by himself could cause me to achieve spiritual perfection.

I was, however, willing to admit that I like everybody around me, could use some tips on being the best me I could possibly be. But I knew I could get helpful ideas almost anywhere and from a variety of sources and disciplines for that matter. Even online for crying out loud. But hey, I showed up here with an opened mind. Still, after ten minutes of waiting for the host to come on stage, my mind was closing. So were my eyes. Now that it was too late, I realized why I shouldn’t have had such a hearty lunch earlier. Leftover meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn on the cobb with gobs of butter . . . What a nightmare. I was struggling to stay awake and in the moment.

What was a curse as well as a blessing was the fact that some dude behind me had been mindful enough to bring his toddler along. The hyper little boy kept kicking the back of my damn seat. Although, I was annoyed, it helped keep me awake.

Then without further ado, the ‘master teacher’ took to the stage to a healthy round of applause. What a loser. He was grinning like he had just had sex backstage. He had a salt and pepper beard. He waved like he was president of the United States as he took center stage. And he sported jeans and Nikes to show that he was just like you and me. When the applause finally subsided, some guy whistled enthusiastically. I casually turned my head to see who the jokester was. I immediately recognized the dude as someone I’d shared a joint with twenty years ago.

But I returned my focus to my covert mission. Maybe I could come away with something good to post about.

The host said his name was ‘Master James.’ He had been practicing yoga, meditation, and mindfulness for 25 years and was impervious to pessimism, bad luck, and pain. I overheard the guy who had whistled say, “unbelievable.” I really hoped he wouldn’t turn his head slightly to his left and notice me. Then I might have to talk to him after the show. But smoking with him was simply out of the question. If I remembered correctly, he loved to imitate James Earl Jones’ voice.

Anyway, Master James encouraged everybody to shake hands and introduce themselves to the person seated on either side of them. Once this was done, he bellowed, “just in case you think my claims about not feeling pain are phony, watch this! Carl, bring the dry ice!”

At that, some nervous looking cat, apparently Carl, scampered onto stage with a heavy bucket. He came to a stop before Master James. The teacher smiled broadly, completed a deliberate pirouette, then raising his hands announced, “as you can see, nothin’ up my sleeves . . .” Then with one hand he pulled the waist of his jeans outward as if to show how much weight he’d lost. He held his jeans this way and said to Carl, “you know what to do dude.”

Carl promptly overturned the bucket of dry ice, dumping it down the teacher’s pants! Master James grimaced. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. He lifted his head toward the ceiling and rapidly sucked air. Pieces of ice fell out of his pant legs. He kept sucking air, and still grimacing and staring at the ceiling counted out, “one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, . . .HUUHH!!”

Then he shook his legs dislodging the remaining chunks of dry ice from his jeans. He muttered some choice words. Returning his attention to his flock he stated, “I told you . . . I don’t know why you didn’t believe me. I simply cannot be affected by negative stimuli.” He stood on the very edge of the stage now. “And when we’re done here tonight, you’ll be on your way to having the same power. Do you believe? Do. You. Believe?”

A fortyish redhead with freckles hopped to her feet with teary eyes. She clasped her hands and cried, “I believe you master!” Satisfied with himself, the teacher instructed Carl, “take her backstage and get her some doughnuts man. We don’t need no more interruptions. The show . . ., I mean, the workshop is starting.”

At that point I noticed behind Master James, a woman old enough to be his mother. She was laying a crimson yoga mat on the floor. The teacher spun around, frowned at her, and took a seat on the mat. She backed up a few feet. He assumed the standard yoga position so popular among American women. He then shut his eyes and got into character.

After taking in and letting out some deep breaths he said, “My friends, you don’t need to be in the official, authorized, legal yoga position to adapt the techniques I’ll be showing you today. I have to be in this position though because that’s how I was trained in the monastery in downtown Tibet on Hogwash Street and Hanoi Avenue. I simply cannot focus if I don’t do it the way I was shown by the enlightened ones of that time. May they rest in peace. . .”

“Now. I need you all to close your eyes . . . That’s it. Now . . . Imagine yourself in an open field with soft, fresh, healthy, fragrant grass surrounding you. Everything is quiet and calm, soothing and lovely. Birds are twittering from the evergreens in the distance before you. You are one with nature. You’re human beings. You’re made in the image of the highest order of celestial spirits the universe has ever realized.”

“Is everyone in that meadow with the evergreens? Don’t answer! Stay there. Feel your mind easing into and exploring your surroundings much like the soothing breeze itself. You’re one with the soul of our planet. Everything is perfect. . .”

You could hear a pin drop. Everyone was focused. Then a demon reared its head.

That meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cobb was making noises in my stomach. I frowned. I strategically fidgeted. I hoped to keep from emitting the gas ballooning inside me. Resistance was futile though. The fart slipped out. I peeped about bashfully. Everyone still had their eyes closed. At that point, the teacher said, “everybody breathe in as slowly and as deeply as you can . . .”

So essentially, everyone in rows one through four inhaled the noxious funk of my evacuated meatloaf. I entertained two opposing emotions. One was the gargantuan struggle with my self-image. This as a few eyes opened, and some of those faces frowned and looked around while others started to groan and shift uncomfortably.

The other feeling was one of wild, unbridled enthusiasm. I thought, this should be interesting. Let’s see where this goes. This is celebrity level business! My silent killer permeated the front of the auditorium. I could almost see it. I smirked awkwardly and gazed about for potential snitches. That’s when I heard a man in the front row say, “Excuse me Mr. James sir? Open your eyes for a second?”

Master James peeped, squinted, then quickly closed his eyes with a frown as if his concentration had been challenged. Carl as well as the teacher’s mother gestured for the man to be seated. Instead, the man walked boldly onto the stage and whispered something in Carl’s ear. Carl timidly briefed the teacher’s mother on the situation. Then all I recall is the older woman waving Special Ops security personnel onto stage then pointing me out to the stern-faced members of the eager unit.

The odor in the air was disruptive. I’ll admit that. But not for me. It was my child. I’d brought it into the world. I was emotionally attached to it. It was a potent odor indeed. I was sort of proud of it. It smelt like an inverted corpse. Before I knew it though, the captain of the Special Ops team was tugging on my sleeve, saying,” Sir, will you come with us? It would be in your best interest not to resist.”

Before I could respond though, I was tackled by four members of the unit and the captain kept telling me, “Stop resisting sir!” Reality was a hodgepodge of grunts, and curses with blows being struck on my body and head as I was roughly dragged from my row while trying to look dignified like John C. Lewis. This was my only way of appearing more spiritual than the uncouth version of myself who had broken wind.

Special Ops sat me down in a room backstage and interrogated me concerning my motives. With all the fingers pointing and voices yelling, my nerves were shaken. I sort of lost my grip on reality and emitted an involuntary chuckle. Then none other than Master James himself burst into the room and got in my face. I came to my senses the moment our noses touched as he yelled, “Who do you work for you bastard? Who sent you?”

What happened after that, and my testimony is a matter of government record. “But you might be able to check it out through the freedom of information act,” I suggested to my buddy Jose Luis. “What a scandal. Either way, we should be done here in fifteen minutes.”

The wonderful physical therapist, a young Bengali woman named Sananda was steadily prodding and massaging my lower back. I hoped sensation would return to the area. But I had not had any since the massive nerve damage suffered from the Special Ops team. My employer understood and granted me ample time to recover. My lawyer suggested the longer it took the better.

Jose went out of the room to use the bathroom. That’s when Sananda saw an opportunity and seized the moment. Her soft, little hands gently slid down my lower back and kept going lower. The massage now inexplicably focused on my buttocks. Absolutely uncalled for. I didn’t know if my insurance covered this part of the experience. Nobody said anything about a copay.

However, I am by nature relatively optimistic even in the absence of stimuli. So, I didn’t question Sananda. But I also recognized the need for sobriety. And since this was the last of my eight sessions, I knew things wouldn’t go any further than this. By the time Jose returned, I had a little more feeling and flexibility in my lower extremities. I wondered now if that was the therapist’s sole intent. I felt bad about the things that had crossed my mind. Sananda smiled and wished me well, then Jose Luis and I left.

The next time I attended a wellness group, I was justifiably skeptical and in fact had vengeance in mind. So, I was armed with pepper spray and a belly full of gumbo, garlic bread, and pudding. I was in the middle rows wearing dark shades and a sinister smile. You can say I was incognito. Undercover. On a covert mission. I sat patiently feeling bloated and constipated. Things were about to get weird. And fast.

If you need somebody to speak to, you can always call the Mental Health Hotline at 866-903-3787. Or call 988.