by Rebekah Shardy

Oddly, this New Age mecca is in the middle of potato farmers, real cowboys and other good 'ole boys that put on the oldest rodeo in the state of Colorado. It’s an unnatural place to spot a bald Buddhist nun at the Tasty Freeze.

The gravel road to the Sangha turned into a dirt path, then one studded with rocks, and finally a grassy driveway. We had to get out at that point and walk the rest of the way. It wasn’t the Potala, but you were certainly reminded to ‘be mindful of your breath’ as you mounted the stair to wide polished doors.

It was hard not to laugh out loud at the way we looked, devoutly slapping our bare feet on the dusty boards in earnest laps to nowhere. So Zen.

Inside was silence and incense and shadow – but also laughing voices from the kitchen. We called out as we moved toward the merriment, but no one seemed particularly welcoming. We were told to pick up a paper plate and help ourselves: we’d arrived just in time for dinner. It was wholesome and low-frills by anyone’s standards: a tossed green salad, couscous, cheese and fruit salad.

Did you know being bald makes it impossible for anyone else to guess your age? The American and European nuns and monks all seemed rather ageless, nervous and evasive. Dinner at the sangha is the only meal during which you are permitted to talk, and they seemed little interested in talking to Molly or me. The idea of Buddhist snobbery was a perplexing koan in itself.

Still, the garden where we sat during dinner was gorgeous. We identified its vigorous vines and robust roots; I spotted an eagle flying over a nearby mountain. Windchimes tittered in the twilight breeze as the cantaloupe Western sun set. A polite, young man introduced himself and explained our itinerary: after dinner we could freshen up in our rooms, join them for meditation in the temple at 7:30 p.m. and then lights out at 9:00 p.m. Good thing, because we’d be awakened at 5 a.m. for more meditation, followed by a silent meal in the kitchen. Would we like to see our rooms?

I think Frank Lloyd Wright would have been envious of our accommodations. It was Asian chic –cherry and teakwood everywhere, cool rattan mats instead of carpet, sexy roll-out futons on the floor with cloud-like white comforters (gets cold in the Colorado mountains even in August), and tall, shadeless windows. In the hallway, a little sand-filled red bowl held sand and slender twigs of incense to burn as one entered. Going to bed would seem like a religious ritual. Siddhartha, I’m home! (CONTINUE...)