“What’s up?” Pedro asked in greeting.

“Hey, can you look at Deer Park Center dot org and tell me the address?” I asked, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pulled off the road. There was a pause as he looked up the address and found the information for me. A blond girl in a red Taurus turned onto the road and stared at me as she drove past.

“4548 Schneider.”

“Great, thanks.”

I clicked my phone shut, and U-turned on the country road to head back towards the spot I had driven by twice without finding. A half mile up, I saw 4548 and turned in. A small bronze plaque on the ornamental fence next to the driveway identified it as the Deer Park Buddhist Center, and I laughed at myself for having expected something larger.

I parked and got out of my car, looking around at the grounds. I was reminded somewhat of a golf course without the airs of pretension, haughtiness, and pseudo-athleticism that typically identifies them.

I must have looked lost, because an older man with a white beard and a twinkle in his eye asked me if I knew where I was going. I told him no, and that I was hoping to just follow someone who did.

“Oh, it’s right up here,” he said, pointing up the small hill. I followed a step behind him on the narrow natural limestone walkway. He gestured broadly at some tall concrete foundations. “That’s where the new temple is going to be. Have you heard about the teacher today?” Before I had a chance to answer, he explained excitedly. “He’s a Tibetan monk that spent twenty years in a Chinese prison. Can you imagine?”

“Yeah,” I responded weakly, “I read that on the web site.” Belatedly, I offered my hand to him. “I’m Marc.”

“Mike,” he responded, warmly grasping my hand. “Nice to meet you. Oh, looks like we’re just in time.”

I looked up to the top of the hill in time to see two monks in maroon and gold robes moving down a conjoining path towards the temple.Amazed, I caught my breath–real Buddhist monks! I felt a little silly being awed by people whose goal is to be as humble as possible. Mike and I stopped and allowed the monks to cross in front of us. We followed a bit behind and walked into the temple. Mike swiftly disappeared when my head was turned.

As I walked in, a woman held out a red binder to me with laminated leaves. I accepted it, and must have again looked lost. She gently told me to take off my shoes and take a cushion to sit down on. Looking into the temple, I saw long rows of maroon cushions and walked in. I tried to select an unobtrusive spot in the back where the errors I was certain to make would be the least obvious to the rest of the congregation. I started to sit down on the cushion when another woman (or possibly the same one) hurried over and offered me a round, flat cushion. Looking around, I noticed that everyone else was sitting on cushions on top of the cushions already on the floor. I thanked her and sat down cross legged.

Before I had a chance to get my bearings or look at the temple or binder, everyone stood up, placed their palms together fingers up in front of their chests, and bowed slightly. Unsure what to do, I mimicked them and hoped that the activities in the ceremony wouldn’t be too hard for a novice to follow.

The congregation seemed to be all bowing towards the door, and I looked up to see the aforementioned monk making his way to the front of the temple. The congregation tracked him as he moved, pointing towards him until he sat down at a table in front of a framed portrait of the Dalai Lama. At this point, the congregation began moving their hands from the top of their heads, to their lips, to their hearts, then prostrating themselves on the floor, then getting up and doing it again. [My guess is that this relates to Buddhist practice: right thoughts (head), right speech (lips), and right action (heart).] After each person had done this thrice, he or she sat down.

Confused and unsure of what to do, I nervously squatted on the floor watching them and hoped that they’d be done soon.

A young Asian man sitting to the left of the Lama, facing the congregation, gave a brief introduction of the day’s lesson. We were to be going through a common prayer in an attempt to better understand the meanings behind it. (Common to them, anyhow. I’d never seen it before.) The congregation began singing the prayer in Tibetan, and I was immediately lost. The Asian man next to me silently caught my attention and pointed to the point on the page where they were singing from.

I listened for the first four verses, looking through the phonetically spelled Tibetan while attempting to learn the melody, as well as trying to find the current spot in the prayer so I could follow along. Feeling awkward not singing with everyone else, I did my best to pickup the droning minor-key hymn on the fly. I listened carefully to the bass of the man next to me, quickly changing my pronunciation each time it differed from his. Despite never having heard the pronunciation of any Tibetan, I began to understand the basics of reading the language aloud after the first verse.

…the consonants are the same… unaccented vowels inside two consonants are pronounced with a long sound… accented vowels or vowels next to an apostrophe are short… words ending in a vowel are short, except for A’s, which seem to be short no matter what… “pai” is pronounced “pi…”

After around a dozen verses and probably seven minutes, the hymn was over, and the lama began speaking in Tibetan, which I heard from a native speaker for the first time. It reminded me of French with high, lifting, soft vowels and none of the hard consonants or guttural sounds of German or Russian.

The lama would speak for a few minutes, then allow the young man to translate for him. Occasionally, he would turn to the lama to ask a clarifying question, then continue his explanation. At several points he leaned in to the nun sitting across from him to make certain of his understanding of the translation. They would discuss in hushed tones, and then he would finish by telling their understanding of what the lama had said.

Over the course of the next two and a half hours, I had time to look at the temple. It was gaily decorated in bright colors: red, white, blue, gold, and green. There were several gold Buddhas sitting in meditation posture on a canopied table, beneath them votive candles in colored glass lotus flower-shaped holders. Banners covered the walls to the high ceilings, and a wall of glass doors and tall windows filled the room with sunshine.

Although the content of the talk was obviously Buddhist, there were a lot of things to be taken from it that are true independent of religion: Taking responsibility for our actions, both good and bad. Knowing that we don’t have long on this Earth, and that we must grow and learn as much as we can while we’re here, because this life is precious and will not be repeated. The path that our actions lay out for us form the basis of who we are. There was nothing particularly deep or dogmatic about the lama’s teachings today; and that’s part ofwhat I find so attractive about Buddhism. A lot of what was said can be easily applied to everyday living, no matter what you believe.

After the service was done, one of the congregation said that therewould be tea in the basement of the house across from the temple for new attendees. I walked out, put on my shoes, and began walking with the intention of going for tea–but then hesitated when I realized I had no idea where it was.

Mike materialized out of nowhere and asked, “So, what did you think?”

“It was interesting. I enjoyed it.”

Before I could finish asking the question, Mike was already showing me the way to the house and into where people would be coming. I turned to thank him, but he was already out of sight. I found myself wondering if he was real, and if other people would be able to see him if they were in the same room.

My nervousness returning, I walked into a large kitchen where a middle-aged woman in a white wool cardigan, ankle-length skirt, and large glasses offered me a mug. She introduced herself as Elizabeth, showed me the percolator full of hot water and the wall of various teas, and then offered me apples and cheese. Had she not been in the kitchen of a Buddhist monastery, I would have instantly pegged her as a kindly church lady or teacher. I selected my old standby of Earl Grey black tea, and drank it straight because I was uncomfortable asking for my usual milk and three sugars. Another woman joined us, and we awkwardly chatted.

Eventually the topic turned to a relatable topic for me, and we began having something that I haven’t had in ages: an intelligent discussion with strangers whom I felt I could relate to. Eventually the table filled out with more people, and I was surprised to see that I was the youngest person there by a good fifteen years. I can’t remember the last time I had a discussion with older people where I felt that I could converse with them as peers.

After a while, I looked up to see that it was 1:30pm. I was enjoyingmyself, but I’m also paranoid about not knowing when to leave. The table was still full, but I stood up, pushed in my chair, and gave a general “nice to meet you” to the assemblage. I left feeling good about the whole experience, and glad to have done it.

They have teachings on Thursday nights, which I should be able to make when my work schedule changes to my regular hours. I probably won’t be able to make it on Sundays very often, but I’d like to go back.