Buddhism also began to play a larger role in my life. I had become interested in it before I moved to Seattle, and now I decided to dedicate more time to it. I practiced Nichiren Shoshu, one of many Buddhist denominations that is often described as orthodox Buddhism and in which chanting is an important element of the faith. Although this type of Buddhism is not very common in America, it is practiced by many people around the world.
I found that the community, principles, and chanting helped me survive the stress that was too often in my life. To me, other than being around horses, Nichiren Shoshu is the best prescription for trying to keep myself level. I started chanting twice daily, in the morning and the evening. It helped to calm me as matters deteriorated between Riley and myself. It also gave me the strength to stand up to him. He was growing his business, and I felt those demands did nothing to harmonize our situation. I begged him to slow down for everyone’s sake.
We argued more frequently about it, and he began to criticize my interests in everything. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that basing a relationship solely on having kids was like leaving the gas on in an unlit oven; sooner or later there was going to be an explosion.
The underlying stress was building. Sometimes the change can be so gradual, it’s like a slow burn from normal to manic. Manic or not, I’d been thinking about moving to Los Angeles, and I felt like the kids needed a change. There were to be auditions with the Pearl Chorus, a renowned international Buddhist choir in Santa Monica. I decided I could sing. I sounded good to myself, and would sing along sometimes when Riley and the boys jammed in our living room. “The Impossible Dream” was my song choice.
One idea spurred another, and before long I had a plan. I would go to Los Angeles to sing in the chorus, get a place, and find a job until I realized my dream of becoming an award-winning actor or singer or both, then send for the kids. I would do it all.
Yeah, I was manic.
Furlong Two
An order is being established as some of the horses accelerate. I feel the urge in Pegasus. He wants to bolt with them. I know he wants to show them who they’re dealing with, but I hold him back. It’s too early. In a race, it’s easy to get ahead of yourself. I know what that can be like. It’s characteristic of my illness. I’ve rushed to places in my head that I was incapable of getting to, where wild, stampeding emotions took control instead of my controlling them. It was not the way to win. As much as I want to run with Peg and let him shine, I know I have to be patient for him. The excitement of the race can burn you out.
I remember words told to me a long time ago by a horseman who had become like a second father to me.
“Have a little bit for now. Have a little bit for later,” I softly speak to Peg.
Los Angeles, California
As usual, when I would get what I now know to be manic, my confidence was overflowing. The voices inside of me were clear: “Leave Riley, go to Los Angeles to become a successful actress, then come back for the children.” It all made sense to me. The Buddhist choir was a “sign” to get me to Hollywood. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have any experience; I had performed in a few local theater productions. I was ready for the next step. Weren’t you supposed to pursue your dreams? Countless others had, and had succeeded, why not me? I had a gift and was going to Hollywood to share it. And in my spare time, I was going to sing with the internationally acclaimed Buddhist choir the Pearl Chorus.
Never once did it cross my mind that over the years my dreams seemed to be constantly changing. It didn’t matter. I was determined. And I just knew it was the perfect way to save my children. Rolling down the I-5 highway, with the windows down and the cold night air washing over me, I imagined the kind of house I would have, right on the beach. The kids and I could play in the sand every day, and we would have lots of pets and maybe a ranch near Santa Barbara where we each would have our own horse. I began naming the horses: Hollywood, the Dream Machine, Superstar.
It was in the wee hours of morning when I pulled into Santa Monica. The city was still. With all of five hundred dollars in my pocket, the best place for me to stay was in my Volvo. I parked in front of the World Cultural Center for Buddhism, and for the next two days that was my hotel. I felt safe there and considered it only temporary. I was a certified nursing assistant; I felt positive that I could find work.
The next morning I signed with a temp agency that soon found me work with AIDS patients. I’d hoped to get a live-in assignment to avoid paying rent, but there wasn’t one available. Still, I considered this progress and a positive result of my increased chanting. As a Nichiren Buddhist, I believed strongly in the power of chanting to bring positive results in my life and had increased the number of hours I spent on it. Sure enough, I found an ad for a cheap place to live: it cost $400 a month, which didn’t leave me with much else, but at least I would have four walls, instead of a car, surrounding me. I moved in and bought some Campbell’s tomato soup. I had to cook it in a partially rusted cookie tin because I couldn’t afford to buy pots and pans. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
I was in Los Angeles as the HIV/AIDS epidemic began to peak. One of my first patients lived in a house on Mulholland Drive, a long, twisting road with many spectacular homes that crested the hills between Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley. On my first visit to Fiona, her front door was open, and I could hear her weeping when I slowly entered the house. She had been stuck in a chair in the kitchen for days, and no one had heard her cries for help. She hadn’t eaten or bathed during the entire time. I cleaned her up, got her to eat, and comforted her by holding her, which at the time many people were afraid to do. In fact, the fear of AIDS was more prevalent than the disease itself. Many of these AIDS patients had been at one time vital, successful people who were essentially abandoned and shunned. It was so wrong, and my heart went out to them. I was happy to do all I could for them. Fiona, who was also a Buddhist, and I became and remained good friends until she passed away.
I got to be friends with Walter, who had been actress Teri Garr’s hairstylist. He was a kindhearted man who was deep in the grips of the disease. I would take care of him and even administered his medicine, because the nurses were too afraid of contact to give it to him. More important, I kept him company. Many a night I would crash there after my shift because he didn’t want to be alone. I was there for him when even his family turned their backs on him. He was my friend, and I appreciated the companionship as much as he did.
It was rewarding to care for patients who needed me as much as I needed them. But even that wasn’t enough to stave off the loneliness I felt without my children. Riley, already upset over this whole situation, was even more sure that my working with AIDS patients was another manifestation of my insanity. I explained to him that I had educated myself on the subject and that with the proper precautions there was no chance of me contracting the disease from my patients. Still, for a while, he considered me to be a risk to the children.
Our talks became nothing but shouting matches, so I decided to focus my attention on the upcoming auditions for the Pearl Chorus. As a practicing Buddhist, I wanted to do that more than anything. I sang day and night. In the shower, in the kitchen, in bed, in the Volvo, anywhere I could. I guess I overdid it. The day of the audition, my voice was gone. Nothing. Nada. When it was my turn to sing, all I could manage was a low squeak. I was more than surprised when the director announced that the newest member of the group would be Sylvia Harris.
My work with the Pearl Chorus was a joyful experience, although it was certainly challenging learning songs in Japanese. But it did little to stop that ever-growing hole in my heart. After about a month, I convinced Riley to let me come to Santa Rosa to see the children on the weekends. It was clear that my being in Los Angeles was devastating for