So, on Friday, as soon as we saw Jet off on the bus to school, we got our hiking gear, drinking water, and sunglasses into the Passat, and headed out to I 25 and then north to Fort Collins. Once we were far enough north we turned west and drove up into the mountains, through rolling foothills, and ended up at the head of the dirt road with a sign that said, "Shambala Mountain Center 5 mi."
It was actually a very nice road, well-maintained and smooth. We only met one other car going the other way, and passed a few houses and ranches. The entrance to the retreat was pretty obvious, with a very clear sign. We turned off and saw an instruction board for where and how to park. The major decision point had to do with whether or not one felt capable of walking the distances involved, and since we had come in order to walk, we parked in the general parking area.
The first half of the walk was through Highland meadow, with rock outcroppings over scrubby trees. They put elevated walkways over some of the grass, in order to not impact the ground quite so much. The day itself was gorgeous, brilliantly sunny but not too hot, since we were about 7000 feet up in altitude. I was struck by how much it resembled the pictures, movies, and videos that I had seen of the Himalayas, especially the "low land" shots of Nepalese Sherpas in their villages at "only" 10,000 feet. The ever present wind was gentle and cool, whispering instead of howling, and making the leaves of the aspen trees rustle in the wind.
They had a central area where most of the buildings resided, which they called a "downtown". It was about a dozen buildings, including one worship area that disgorged maybe two dozen people just as we walked up. They gathered in a circle, clapped, and chanted in loud voices. We stopped, observed, and stayed still while they were chanting. Most of the men had prayer shawls over their shoulders, and when they finally broke stride away in different directions, one of the men smiled at us and said, "You picked a perfect day to come."
The second half of the walk around through wooden platforms set up in order to accommodate tents in the summer. Most of the platforms were bare, a few supported bundles of tent covers. It seems that they were readying for the summer retreats. Once past the tent areas, we crossed another meadow, and decided to continue on the main path rather than take the offshoot toward the greenhouse that they maintained on the premises. Part of the weekend amenities includes a lunch that they serve in the main dining hall, which anyone may partake of for a donation.
There are also houses right near the stupa, one was obviously handcrafted in a very unconventional manner. A visitors center also stood in the small cluster of buildings just before the temple. On the pathway, directly in front of the stupa's entrance, was a small shrine to Buddha. On it was clustered hundreds of tiny gifts, and I instantly dug into my purse to find one of the goyen pieces that amberley had given to me for luck and as a marker for certain things in some of his games. I love that he let us keep this pieces, and thought it would be a good offering in thanks for creation, fun, and luck. So I placed it on the pile of tiny things, bowed to the happy Buddha and said my thanks.
I have a necklace of bead, bells, crowns, and clowns on my purse along with a little Luck fetish with his own tiny golden bell and five yen piece. All of them chime when I walk, and the necklace was something that Jet made me. I just carry them everywhere, and find them comforting. In the quiet of the stupa, they were melodic and familiar, but I wanted to complete the silence, so I set my purse down by one of the cushions. And then, because it seemed the thing to do, I sat down on one of the cushions. The position was enough like a meditative stance that I automatically emptied my mind.
And in my own personal paradigm of holy, something divine filled me, spiraled down around the core of me, and embraced me. Tears started to flow from my eyes, and there was no grief, no pain, nothing bad at all. If anything, it was stunned joy and an all encompassing gentle sorrow. Which makes no real logical sense at all, but it just was, and I sat there, tears dripping off my chin, and just was for a while as well. And it was good.
Later, talking about it with John, he said that I was 'touched' and it's as good a word as any. Emotionally touched by the holy space, regardless of thought, argument, or belief. Just... touched.
Eventually, I got up, wiped off my face with my t-shirt sleeve, and then walked clockwise around the inner space. It was really neat to just see all the people I'd never known about before, other than the Dalai Lama, and there was this poem titled "Timely Rain" by Chogyam Trungpa, the closing stanza was the following: "In the gentle garden of sanity, May you be bombarded by coconuts of wakefulness." The playfulness of the poem made me want to read more.
The hike down as easier than the hike up, and we went pretty well, and got back to the car in plenty of time. On the way, though, I finally saw one brand new prayer flag! It was shiny new silk in yellows with the prayer printed on the banner part of it, and I was struck by the fact that the prayer and image was much the same as the prayer and image on my joss paper at home. The stuff I now burn in conjunction with the Hell Money I have for small offerings and prayers. There's a very clear part of me that says they all go to the same place, no matter the name I might call it all by, and they receive them as they are given.
Red Feathers was a tiny town, with only one restaurant open on a Friday afternoon. The Sportsman's Cafe that had home cooked meals, or so the sign said, and since it was open, we went in. Turns out that the only other two establishments that serve food were closed, one was only open on the weekends, and the other was closed for remodeling. So we sat ourselves down, and were pretty happy with what we saw.
I wandered through the menu of burgers, breakfasts, and all-day biscuits and gravy. I waffled between a patty melt and a burger that had green chili and an onion ring on it, and finally I settled on the Country Fried Steak Sandwich. Now I've had a lot of country fried or chicken fried steaks, and I'll say that the further East (and South) you are, the darker the gravy, and the further north and West you get, the lighter the gravy, but I'd never seen a sandwich. Curious, I ordered that.
And I was ecstatic with it when it came. The crisp crust was delicate and crunchy, the gravy white and rich and creamy, the beef itself was tender, and the bun was buttered and toasted to perfection. With onion rings it was probably the tastiest thing I've eaten for a while. John had a green chili burger and enjoyed every bite as well, so we have yet another reason to go back to the stupa, a stupendous lunch after.
The drive home was quiet and good. Both of us were very happy with our little adventure, and we got to the bus stop in plenty of time to pick up Jet and hug him and tell him we love him. He's got a new habit now, when it's time to go to sleep, to tell us, endlessly, to have a good night and that he loves us, and we're now in the habit of answering them all back.
Maybe all of this was just God's way of telling me that He loved me back.