To Tia

by Charles C. Cole

I thrive on personal space. Unlike most of my peers, I never had kids, never had a serious relationship, and never had sex; not even tempted, except that one time at a personal growth retreat. The event was billed as a weekend for releasing old, stuck resentments.

At the time, my early twenties after a four-year stint in the Air Force, I was still blaming my single-parent father for my bad life decisions and for not hugging me enough during my struggles in high school. I knew the truth was more of a mutual arrangement, but old judgments die hard.

I’d gone to a 1990’s version of a sock hop — a chem-free, shoe-free dance — where it was common to dip and swirl without a partner. That’s where I saw this inviting poster about a center for emotional recovery. At last, I was going to show my father I could take the first step.

The retreat took place in a large wood-floored conference space at a New Age farm on a sunny hillside in southern New Hampshire. The attendees, averaging in their mid-thirties, were mostly muscly bald men with long beards and women with wiry hair down to their lower backs and beaded jewelry everywhere.

Unless we had arrived with a buddy, we were paired up with a person of the opposite sex after making two circles and counting off. My weekend-mate, Tia, was about a foot shorter than me with long bangs and the right side of her head shaved dramatically short. She wore turkey-feather earrings and had light blue eyes.

While listening to recordings of the Paul Winter Consort and other gentle Windham Hill Music instrumentalists, we were led through exercises that were a combination of stretches and primal grunts intended to surface repressed emotions so that we could finally let them go, whether through tears or writing down painful memories and burning them in ceremonial metal basins in the front of the room.

We had plenty of opportunities for privately sharing our thoughts and feelings, in low voices, confidentially, with our partner. The facilitator, a sixtyish woman with white “helmet hair” and an ankle-length faded yellow sundress, played heavily on our getting in touch with our latent abilities, like we were heroes waking up to our true selves.

Tia wept early, squeezing my left hand and rubbing her tears into my T-shirt. “Sorry,” she said. “I should have warned you. I drove two hours to be here, loaded with intention. I’m letting go of all childhood trauma tonight, dammit. Or tomorrow.”

“Go for it,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.” Tia wore a loose, brightly colored vest over a black blouse and — I could tell — no bra. I focused on my altruism.

“I wanted you to be my partner from the moment I saw you,” she said. “You remind me of a good friend from college. I took it as a sign. Is that weird?”

“Maybe trusting your gut is your superpower,” I said.

Later, we broke for an amazing dinner of locally grown veggies served in wooden bowls, followed by a short, revitalizing rest and then some rousing nature-centric singing, accompanied by dulcimer and maracas.

At the end of the night, the men retired to one wing and the women to another. We were warned we might have vivid dreams as our unstuck emotions flowed through us and to have notebooks and pens beside our pillows.

I woke up in the wee hours to use the bathroom. A group of people were sitting on the lawn around a crackling fire and staring quietly at the full moon. Tia was among them. She noticed me and escorted me over.

“I was just thinking of you,” she said, smelling of pot. “I probably woke you up.”

“What did I miss?” I asked.

“Backrubs, meditation and weed.”

“So, not much.”

“Stay. Just with me. There are a couple of hanging egg chairs on the edge of the orchard. We’ll watch for shooting stars and chill.”

“Okay.”

We separated ourselves from the group. I don’t recall much, to be honest: feeling happy, thinking the moon was supernaturally bright, and feeling — at least at that moment — that Tia was my best friend. I remember Tia rocking me for a while and then standing in front of me, beaming love into me.

Later, Tia led me back to the fire which now only had a few stragglers. We stopped before a tall bare-chested, barefoot man with a ring of white hair. He bowed once and coughed a lot.

“This is Osric. I told him about our connection.”

Osric said: “Your aura is amazing, man.”

Later, I gave Tia a backrub and she sort of melted, then we went back to our bunks.

Sunday, after the late-morning closing ceremony, Tia and I drove in opposite directions. I never expected to see her again.

Twelve years later, I received a Facebook friend request from Tia. She was staying at a summer camp only an hour away and asked if she could stop by. She pulled up to my place in a green Mini Cooper. Her eyes were wet as she stepped out.

“My special friend,” she said. “My boyfriend broke up with me, and I’ve been so lonely. Then I thought of someone who once gave me the best massage.”

“That’s quite a sales pitch,” I said.

“Aren’t you a little tempted? I’d be putty in your hands.”

“Of course,” I lied, “but I’m not a casual toucher. You know that.” She wilted.

“Tell you what, you can lie in my hammock. I’ll rock you.”

“I’ll take it.”

She kept her eyes closed most of the time, sometimes opening them and smiling. Once she reached over and, briefly, touched my hand. I even held my face close to her hair and inhaled her sweet goodness.

Unlike many of my peers, I never had kids, never had a serious relationship but, at least I can say, for what it’s worth, I have been in love.