Brunching With the Buddhists

A specific subset of Lauren's family practices a specific subset of Buddhism called Shambhala. I couldn't tell you how Shambhala differs from whatever Siddhartha was doing under the tree that one time, but this difference seems to allow them to run a delightful little cosmos of micro-bakeries, coffee roasteries, and software companies, all out there in Boulder, Colorado. We just got back from a long family reunion weekend among them.

If you're like me, you've trained yourself to be busy with a task during parties, so you can avoid laboriously engineering the excruciating setups and teardowns of even the most cursory of the this-is-so-and-so's. To this end I typically set myself up with a big cooking project, and this time it was to be chili verde, a forgiving braise with a veritable Sahara of sand in its hourglass.

This habit allows one to be of service, and fully participatory, yet wonderfully peripheral. (I refer to this condition as commitment-adjacent.) Lauren — the furthest thing from a misanthrope one might ever hope to meet, unless you count her proximity to me — loves to cook as well, so we excused ourselves from looking at $200 pairs of Amundsen hiking shorts on Pearl Street, and located a fine little mercadito. Unquibbled and untested*, we emerged a half-hour later with heaping boxes, and put-putted our borrowed 1873 Honda Accord back to our host's home.**

These particular Buddhists, of course, long ago shed their earthly commitment to performative jawing. They evince a genuine presence, curiosity, and empathy — a mixture so pure it can slip around the egg timer you're used to sliding down your throat with an index finger at the outset of each new conversation. So, the afternoon of hiding out turned into one of shared tasks, bubbling spirits, and that sort of replenishing social engagement that you used to know Gwyneth Paltrow blogs were lying about. I have never witnessed so many adults so joyfully scrubbing scorched pork off the enamelware.

I may or may not be very Buddhist — I don't know, and that might be the trick of it — and you may have met some raunchy or selfish Buddhists in your own journey through this ever-delaminating diorama, but as the stew's meniscus lowered and the stemware filled with Spindrift spritzers, I felt that I was passively absorbing a bit of what they were putting down. No matter what form my ruse, the pathology-matrix which comprises my social interface fell to harmonized pieces in the presence of such plain decency.

We'd consider moving there, but all those micro-bakeries and boutique coffee roasteries must be making a killing at the farmer's markets, because the average starter home costs more than a spacefaring program. For now we will be staying put in Northeast Portland, where not three hours ago I had to speed away from a psychotic man furiously beating a newspaper box with a metal pipe before he could finish taking aim at my rear windshield.*** Yes, Portland is the place for me. Rich with content, long on the skin-pricks that make for a constantly-reëxamined life.

Next week: Off to the Wisconsin Dells! Photos and write-up to come.

* She tried to screw with my bean recipe

** I was amused to note that the only station which the car seemed to receive broadcast the lamentations of narwhals, lost from one another in the briny deep, but hoping to be together again. (I assume. I was still recovering from speaking Spanish.)

*** NE 30th & Alberta