My first exposure to Buddhism was during a weekend in a monastery in upstate New York, a gorgeous place with gleaming wood and a literary pedigree, albeit one that had been tarnished by some shady behavior (no, it's not just the Catholics). The weekend was offered as a sober retreat, and I was willing to go mainly because I had a major crush on an angry Jewish guy who had signed up. We had been flirting, and the four-hour drive sealed the deal enough that we snuck into what later proved to be a private sanctuary for the students and monks and made love in the hot tub on arrival. Then there were noises in the adjacent room, and the only way to access the exit was through a space that was clearly filled with better-behaved retreatants and Buddhists attending a meditation class. My companion decided to depart fast while people lay out their mats, but I was horrified by the idea of a walk of shame through a meditation class. But there was no alternative, so I opened the door and was greeted by a dozen prone bodies and a monk who sat in zazen but made eye contact and winked. He knew. Soon, he would know everything.
Read More
