Sharon's Report on Her Time in Colorado at the Buddhist Center

I know I promised to tell you what it was like and what I learned but it can’t be done. I tried Budist but it can’t be done.

I could tell you how the faces of people from the outside looked tormented when they first arrived and how, over time, their eyes softened, their faces softened, their voices softened and how we moved in a whisper and people began to walk with confidence, dignity, and respect.

I could tell you how it feels to be completely cold, cold all the way from the outside to deep on the inside and cold even in your mind--colder than cold--and how people--including those who live on the streets--shouldn't ever be cold.

I could tell you about the food, how oriyoki, even with the endless chants and its complicated exacting sequence, is like a quiet lovely dance and how, over time, I was able to eat (without making a face or gagging) whatever was put in front of me—even when given a bowl of thick purple soup with seaweed and large chunks of garlic and spice and other unknown ingredients—and being so completely grateful for every bite.

I could tell you how we sat for hours and hours without moving, never knowing when the rin (bell) would ring, how my back and whole body—even my ears—wrenched with pain for the first week until it became stronger and more accustomed to the cushion and how, on the outside, it looked like nothing was happening but, on the inside, everything was happening.

I could tell you how they found out I did transcription and how, for my work assignment, I got to transcribe the talks by the Sakyong and President Reoch and how that allowed me the chance to learn so much more and, at the same time, kind of go home everyday and, because I had the use of a computer, communicate through e-mail with my family.

I could tell you about the chants—morning chants, protector chants, evening chants and ceremonial chants—and how, when you chant, if you make your voice just the right pitch, the same as everybody else’s, how your voice completely disappears and even though you know you are still chanting, you can’t feel it in your mouth or chest and can’t hear it anymore at all because it has become completely one with everybody else’s and I can’t tell you how amazing that feels.

I could tell you how it felt to be full of life, completely happy, completely alive, completely me.

I could tell you how everybody you know is full of innate basic goodness—although I already knew that—and I could tell you how there was only one shower for forty people but everyone got clean without a word.

I could tell you how time disappeared, how there was no difference between ten minutes and ten hours or day and night or Monday and Friday, how time meant nothing and then again, time meant everything.

I could tell you about things that are unspoken and unseen and yet very powerful.

I could tell you how difficult it is to be silent, how powerful the instinct to communicate, how powerful the sound of words, how devastating they can be, how beautiful they can be.

I could tell you what it feels like to hear music after a whole month without music.

I could tell you about the people, how they became my family and how they were all their very best selves, how they helped me to be my very best self, and how it ached to leave them.

I could tell you that and so much more and it would still be only a little and each is only a piece and you need all the pieces—even the ones that are impossible to communicate—to understand the whole.

So, I tried, but I can’t.

--sharon