You weren’t there when Fox News trained their cameras on the front door,
and heckled people entering the building.
You weren’t there when a string of sadhakas relinquished their practice materials; the kasung dropped off their uniforms.
You weren’t there at the checkout at McGuckin’s when they asked me twice for the name on my account. “Boulder Shambhala Center” I finally said loudly, and it hung in the air like a fart.
Nor when the skinny developer came smarming in the chair in my office, inquiring about Marpa House.
Facing the more insidious incursions – the “spirit speaker” leaving a long message in spirit gibberish on the front desk phone; the street people shitting on the back stoop.
As you tried to show a visitor “a traditional Buddhist shrine”, and there were none on any of the shrines in the building. The dust on the shrines. The Sakyong’s office stuffed with artifacts from the Court. The numbers slowly dissolving like snowmen melting in rain, but then not.
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