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Across the Buddhaverse

Thirty years ago, a group of Boulder hippies, drunk monks and Naropa poets carved Shambhala Mountain Center out of the wilderness. Today they're close to realizing their kingdom on Earth.

A A A Comments By Laura Bond Thursday, Jul 29 2004

...continued from page 5

"I get bugged by bugs," says a little boy in a green shirt.

"Well, don't think about them," offers the girl next to him, plaintively.

Phung Huynh

Follow the guru: Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche reaches out to Buddhists in the early days of Shambhala Mountain Center.

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"I can't help it. I think about them a lot. They bother me."

"That's the whole point of doing it," says another girl, sucking on a lock of blond hair. "You learn how to not let things bother you so much. You're just like, 'Oh. Yeah. Well, okay. Goodbye, dumb thought.'"

Just before lunchtime, MacLean has the kids do one more exercise. They're to write haiku based on this morning's journey to the maitri building, where the kids sat in rainbow-hued rooms and attempted to absorb the energy of color. After about ten minutes of Crayola scrawling, they stand and recite their poems, one by one. Later, Bella gives me a copy of hers. It goes like this:

Stairing up at the sealing

Swearling downwerd but staying still

blue just Blue

There's very little light in my Army tent, thanks to the dollar-store batteries in my flashlight. Shambhala Mountain Center is so quiet tonight, I feel completely out of touch with one of my senses: I zip the tent door open just to hear a sound.

Sitting on my foam-padded cot, I'm determined to give meditation one more go. I cross my legs, look straight ahead, try to settle my mind.

Hello, dumb thought.

I can't do it. After two days among the yogis and the budding bodhisattvas, in the lingering patina of Chögyam Trungpa's teachings and a light summer rain that fell all afternoon, my mind is everywhere but in the tent with me. I'm thinking about how much gas I've got for the ride home and whether my cell phone died while I was up here. I try to center on images of the Great Stupa, but instead come back with pictures of my apartment on fire.

Fortunately, I've got several hundred lifetimes to figure it out.